


merci, mon cœur

by incurableromancer



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Nile Freeman Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, booker likes to be called pet names, nile and joe are anxiety buddies, nile is a badass, nonna nicky, tries to feed everybody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29116098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer
Summary: He wants to call her something softer- mon amour, or chérie, or even babe or bae or baby, whatever it is the Americans are calling each other this century, because those are less likely to make her erupt into laughter than his French. Which is absurd, because hello, it’s the language of love. Booker would melt into a puddle if she called him something sappy in his native language, not that he’s inclined to admit it. But she doesn’t like to be sweet talked, not when she’s upset, and she prefers Freeman to Nile when they’re in work mode, something left over from the marines. So Freeman it is.Or: Nile has a panic attack, and Booker loves her very much, even when she's being stubborn.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 174





	merci, mon cœur

Nile Freeman is a badass, and Booker loves this about her. He can’t imagine growing up the way she did, south side of Chicago, barely seeing her mom her entire childhood because of all the hours she worked, taking care of her brother, dealing with the loss of her dad. Following in his footsteps, all the way to Afghanistan. It’s made her tough, certainly. A warrior. self-sufficient, on top of everything else she is- incredible, passionate, beautiful, so insanely smart and funny. Bookish like Nicky when it comes to her interests, art history, artistic like Joe, sarcastic and witty like Andy, and a little bit unhinged the same way she is- also grounded the same way Booker is, a touch pessimistic and dark and introspective. But mostly she’s entirely something else, a surprise every day, a breath of fresh air. She’s Nile fucking Freeman.

It’s made her stubborn, too. She learned that the only one she can trust to pull through for her is herself, and so even now, at the end of a long day, after getting exploded not once, but twice, and dying a third time diving between Andy and the barrel of a gun, she’s refusing to accept his help to decompress. 

He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, watching her burn through another rep of sit ups, complete with a one-two set of punches on each crunch. Frank Ocean is blasting out of her phone, the mellow vibe a jarring contrast to her drill-like motions.

“You’ve done enough for the day, Freeman. Come relax.“

He wants to call her something softer- _mon amour, or chérie_ , or even babe or bae or baby, whatever it is the Americans are calling each other this century, because those are less likely to make her erupt into laughter than his French. Which is absurd, because hello, it’s the language of love. Booker would melt into a puddle if she called him something sappy in his native language, not that he’s inclined to admit it. But she doesn’t like to be sweet talked, not when she’s upset, and she prefers Freeman to Nile when they’re in work mode, something left over from the marines. So Freeman it is.

“No, Booker. You relax. I’m good here.“

She flips over and switches to push ups, and Booker wants to put his head in his hands. 

He could go relax and leave her to it, and she wouldn’t hold it against him, because she means what she says, doesn’t play games like that. This is her thing. She keeps her pain close to her heart and exercises until she’s too tired to stand up. Somehow she manages a shower afterwards, and then she falls into bed and goes to sleep for twelve hours and wakes up just fine and dandy, ready to get on with life, to smile and mean it.

Booker can’t help but worry it’s not sustainable. He knows a little something about keeping your struggles inside for too long. 

But she’s still grinding away, and he’s already asked three times. So he does the next thing that comes to mind, drops down beside her and matches her pace, up-down, up-down, up-down. 

She shoots him a grin, and picks up the pace. Then it becomes a competition, and form and the rep count get lost in the attempt to move faster than each other. Booker’s muscles are bigger, but she’s a marine through and through, and his stamina is no match. 

He flops down on his back, chest heaving, lost count somewhere after 150. Now he’s sore and aching all over again, but she’s laughing and whooping, so it’s worth it. 

“Come on, man. Don’t tell me you’re tapping out already.“

He makes a face at her, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. She’s finally sitting still on the floor, reaching for her water bottle. 

“I’m an old man. I am absolutely tapping out.“

She rolls her eyes at him, because since she’s the new baby of immortality, Booker is finally allowed to consider himself a part of the old man club with Joe and Nicky. After getting teased for two centuries, he thinks he’s allowed to be excited about it. 

Her face goes serious, and her big brown eyes scan over him, appraising. 

“We’ve had quite a day. How are you feeling?“

He raises an eyebrow at her, unimpressed. 

“You tell me how you’re feeling, and I’ll tell you how I’m feeling.“

She stares at him a moment. 

“I’m feeling awful,“ she says, straightforward. He takes her hand, happy that she lets him. “Getting exploded hurts like a bitch, and there was a minute where I thought I was too late and the bullets hit Andy. My heart rate doesn’t want to come down. But I know how to deal with a panic attack, Book. Now, how are _you_ feeling?“

“I’m good,“ he says, honestly. “Everybody is okay. I didn't take many bullets. I’m not more worried for Andy today than I’ve been since finding out she stopped healing. I’m just worried about _you_ because you haven’t been exploded before, and any of us would be shaken up after having the day you’ve had. You’re the only one who died today, did you realize?“

She looks down to her lap, and then back up at him. 

“Well, shit. No. I didn’t realize.“ She scrubs a hand down her face, and he watches her deflate a little. 

He takes a breath, and wheedles, “I didn’t think so. And we don’t have to keep talking feelings if you don’t want, but please, you’re making _me_ feel anxious watching you in here. Joe has panic attacks too, you know. And maybe it won’t work for you, but his way of dealing with it doesn’t involve burning himself out further. I’d appreciate it if you let me try it with you.”

She blows out another breath, just staring at him for a few more moments. Another thing he likes a lot about her is that she doesn’t choose her words lightly. She will always wait to respond until she’s sure.

Finally she pauses the music and pockets her phone, and pulls him to his feet. He pulls her towards the washroom, adjoined to the main room where the rest of the team is camped out before she can change her mind. There’s a chorus of upbeat words called out as they walk by, and the distinct offer from Nicky of food, saying they both are too skinny, that they didn’t eat enough at dinner, and he can have something whipped up in just a moment, before they waste away.

They share a fond eye roll, and Booker calls out in the negative. Nicky’s way of coping by nesting is one of the more useful of all of their coping strategies. Booker is sure Joe is going to gain ten pounds before they move on from this safe house, with its big, shiny, modern kitchen. 

He closes the bathroom door behind them, then, and promptly folds her into a tight hug. She goes stiff as a board, first, and then finally relaxes, hugs him back. 

“Alright,“ she says, and he can see what she means about her racing pulse now, because she can’t seem to catch her breath all the way. “How does Joe deal?“

“Joe deals by letting Nicky take care of him, dumbass. It’s a lot harder to hyperventilate when somebody is helping you breathe.” He runs his hand, slow and gentle, down the back of her head, lands warmly on her neck, listening to her snort her laughter, intentionally places her hand against his chest and breaths slow and deep for long minutes, waiting until her breath starts to synch up. “You still with me, Freeman? Nile?“

She pulls back enough to look up at him, solemn. Her forehead is pinched with the tension she wouldn’t let him see, before. 

“Yeah, okay.“ She kisses him, quick and chaste, and then pats his bicep before stepping back, spinning around and turning on the taps. 

“We having a bath or a shower?“

He groans quietly, stretching his arms up above his head and cracking his neck before taking off his shirt. She doesn’t even make prayer hands towards his chest, or mumble about his muscles, which is now he knows she’s still shaken up. 

“If we have a bath, will you sit down and let me take care of you, for once? We don’t have to keep talking, but I swear on my life it’ll help you relax.“

She nods curtly, turns her back to him to plug the drain before he can get a read on her eyes. Still without looking at him, she says, “I’ve never taken a bath with somebody before.”

He slowly walks up behind her and hugs her tight, rests his chin on her head, grips her hands back just as tight as they latch onto his. There are a lot of things he could say, a lot he wants to. In the end he decides to take the lighthearted rout. “I’ve never had to get my ass handed to me in a push up contest to get somebody to let me help them shake off a panic attack before. We’re both doing pretty good for first timers, aren’t we?”

She exhales something that just might be a laugh again, melting back into his embrace, so he knows he made the right choice. 

Once they’re in the bath, Nile admits defeat. Running the washcloth over her turned into giving her a shoulder massage, and she’s gone completely boneless, head tipped onto his shoulder, entirely relaxed, heart rate slowed down to normal. If he were to hazard a guess, he would say she’s even close to falling asleep. 

“Fuck, okay, you were right. This is better than push ups.“ She sighs, turns her face to brush her nose against his neck. Then she whispers, soft and sweet, “merci, mon cœur. I love you.”

And, well. He blames the way his cheeks go hot and pink on the heat of the water. 

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is @ dearpatroclus


End file.
